Receivers
by TheQuiltedFox
Summary: Peggy's relationships — romantic or otherwise — have always been turbulent. This story is composed of a series of phone calls and encounters beginning in December, 1968, and ending late 1969. Each chapter details the interactions between two characters. Major spoilers for Season 7a. Peggy Olson, Don Draper, Ted Chaough, Stan Rizzo. **Story now completed**
1. Chapter 1 - December 6, 1968

A/N This has been my first attempt at fan fiction... so I'd love to know what you think! I love reading your comments!

**Chapter summary: Cold fries and cold conversation.**

* * *

**Friday, December 6, 1968**

'Peggy?' He'd recognise her profile anywhere, even if it is darting down the stairs of the subway.

She stops, but doesn't turn.

'_Peggy_... ' Not so much a question this time, more of a plea. _Stop. Please._

She turns to face him, not a bit of sympathy in those sharp blue eyes.

'Don.' Her voice too, is sharp. It's an accusation.

He tries to think of something nice to say, or failing that, something clever. Instead, 'Would you come up here.' He shuts his eyes for a moment, chastising himself. What was that? It's the same tone he would use on the secretaries.

But she does it, she's at the top step, glaring at him as commuters push past her. Even when angry, she's obedient. Jesus, _obedient_? Those last few drinks at the dive bar were probably a mistake. It's what happens when he needs to escape Madison Avenue... and any of the bars close by... he ends up a few blocks away from where he feels confident, and runs into the one woman who could say no to him, and stick to that decision.

* * *

They end up in some diner with red upholstery on the booth seats. It's busy and rowdy with an after-work crowd. Everyone looks like they're ready to start the weekend early. Peggy, however, looks exhausted.

Dawn's already phoned to say that Lou Avery's taken over as Head of Creative. His name was on the office door the day after Don was... whatever he was... _Given some time off_... He knew what that translated as.

A young waitress with a doughy face comes over to take their order. Peggy hesitates, turning the plastic menu over a couple of times. Don catches her eye and raises an eyebrow.

'You going to order?'

'You're the one who wanted come in here. You order.' She's still being sharp with him.

'Fine.' He glances at the menu, looking for the simplest option, 'Bowl of fries.'

The waitress doesn't bother to write it down. 'Drinks?' she asks, tacking on a false smile at the end.

'No.'

Peggy clears her throat.

'You want something?'

'No.'

But of course, he's meant to ask first, isn't he.

He looks up at the waitress, and lets out a dismissive huff, 'That's all.'

She pivots on her low heel and stomps off.

'You think she'd be grateful, one less table to worry about.' Don adjusts his coat, rearranging the tails so they don't crease under his weight. Then he unwinds his scarf, folding it over slowly and tossing it down next to him on the seat.

Peggy, he notices, has made no effort to relax or get comfortable. She's still wearing her hat.

She catches him observing her. _Well? _her look seems to say.

'Well... ' he starts, but is interrupted by the bowl of fries that's placed down rather unceremoniously between them.

'You should eat something,' there's almost a touch of genuine care in her voice.

He considers refusing, just out of spite, but his liquid lunch— and breakfast— slosh around in his stomach.

He keeps his eyes on her as he takes a handful and pops them in his mouth one by one. She doesn't shy away, just stares right back. There's a furrow in her brow that makes him think she's trying to ask and answer a lot of questions non-verbally. When he finishes the handful, he brushes the remaining salt and oil from his hands.

'So, _how's Lou_?'

'Different.' Peggy doesn't even take a second to consider her answer. What was he hoping to hear; _when will you be back? _Perhaps a hint of pleading in her tone. But no, just _different._

'Different. Right.' He takes another fry. 'I thought maybe... They said Ted would manage your work from the LA office.'

'Ted can't manage anything.'

He can't help it; the venom in her voice makes him grin.

Peggy notices and shakes her head. 'I can't forgive what you did— I can understand it, but I can't forgive it.' She looks down at her hands resting in her lap, 'He was a good man.' She's doing that thing; where she locks her jaw and her head shakes like there's something she's itching to let out.

'_Really?'_

'He was.'

Past tense. Interesting. Maybe Chaough had the right idea, maybe 3000 miles is the perfect amount of distance to put between your problems. But Megan's in California and SC&amp;P's in New York... where's he supposed to go.

'When will you be back?' She doesn't say it like he wants her to.

'I don't know. It's "indefinite"... Soon, I guess... They'd say so it it weren't...'

Would they though? With the shareholders track record over the past few years; Lucky Strike, Jaguar, Lane, Joan. The right hand never knew when the left was picking its own pocket.

'Indefinite?' Peggy lets out a low whistle. 'That's a long time to go without work... especially when you're used to a certain lifestyle— '

'It's full pay.'

She gives a short laugh, '_That's what the money's for_,' she says it quietly, but it hits him all right.

He shifts in his seat; time to change the conversation. 'How was your Thanksgiving?' His attempt at lightness passes for genuine, even to his own ears.

Peggy tilts her head to the side, her brow furrowing for a moment, then she smiles. It's a sad smile; a look he's seen on far too many faces far too often lately.

'Fine— ' She cuts herself off and throws her head back for a moment, then, 'Actually, it was... It's never the best time for me, Don... To be honest.'

'Oh.' Her tone surprises him. 'Family?' Jesus, he doesn't know a thing about her outside of the office.

She toys with the idea of eating one of the fries from the bowl that's gone cold between them. She pulls one out from the bundle— it's short and burnt at one end. She lays it down on the plastic-covered table-top.

'It's more of an anniversary...' She begins to nod her head quickly, and looks at him directly. Those eyes are wide. She's trying to say something without actually—

'_Oh._' He's taught himself to forget things too easily. 'How long, I mean, how— '

'Eight. He— he will have just turned eight,' Peggy tries to smile, but it falters, the corners of her mouth twitching. She clears her throat instead, waves a hand vaguely, then brings the same hand up to fiddle idly with the scarf knotted around her neck.

_He_. Don's sure that's new information. When they'd spent her birthday shouting, drinking, and sleeping, he could remember her talking about it. Well, around it. _Playgrounds_. The idea of it— her small voice as she said it— still gets him like a kick in the gut. Then there's another sick feeling... that it would make a great campaign, like Kodak's Carousel. It's nostalgia... a longing for the past. What would the tagline be? How could he assure this audience that everything was okay, _that she was okay..._

Don's honestly never spared a thought for whose it is, but now he knows there's another little boy out there who doesn't know his mother.

He wants to curl up and go to sleep.

* * *

He sees her off at the same subway entrance, unsure if their lunch really achieved anything, but it's a better goodbye than they'd had previously.

'Peggy... '

'Don.' She gives one last parting nod, and then she's gone.

He turns back and starts walking in the opposite direction.

He allows himself a quick thought; how long until they're back on the same path? Then again, had they ever been?

And then the thought's gone, cast off with so many others.

He really needs to lie down.

* * *

Preview of chapter 2: Peggy receives a phone call from the man she hates to love. Peggy/Ted


	2. Chapter 2 - December 17, 1968

**Summary: Peggy receives a call from the man she hates to love.**

* * *

**Tuesday, December 17, 1968**

The two-room office is uncomfortable in its stillness. Pete and the secretary have finished for the day, leaving Ted alone with his thoughts, his yet-to-be-unpacked boxes, and his phone.

* * *

The office is silent. There's only the odd desk lamp lighting a path from the entrance of SC&amp;P to Peggy's office.

It's just gone ten when he calls. She's watching her reflection in the glass of the window; the dark sky as her mirror. The blinds are open, and cold glass is chilling the air. In the building opposite, a whole floor of lights goes out.

Peggy snaps out of her reverie and swings her chair around to face the desk.

Did he know she'd still be in the office? Maybe he did this every night, just hoping she'd pick up.

As she stares at the phone it stops ringing. Still, she waits. Sure enough, after a brief silence, there it is— that loud interruption demanding her attention.

Her hand hovers over the receiver, still undecided.

A sudden wave of anxiety goes through her at the thought of hearing his voice, and also, of not hearing it.

Peggy takes the receiver and holds it close to her ear. She can't say anything yet, just in case...

'I wasn't sure you'd be in still,' he says, his voice low and tired. 'It's late over there.'

She could get angry. She could yell, shout, curse, cry. She could hang up. But instead, all she does is sigh, 'There's a lot to do.'

'I know. I know.' He sounds relieved that there's any reply at all.

Peggy rolls her shoulders and stretches her neck from side to side. It's been a long day. No matter what she says to Lou, no matter how good the work is, it feels like every step is going backward, not forward.

'Peggy?'

'Hmm?'

The chill seeping in from the cold glass behind her gets the back of neck, causing a shiver.

'What's it like?' She's referring to the office. He'll know that by the lightness in her voice. It's one question without any weight to it.

'Bright. It's always so bright, and the sun... It's not New York.'

'You'll go brown.'

There's a beat. Peggy places a hand to the back of her neck, but even that's cold. Everything about her feels icy tonight.

'I can't stand this... ' he says.

'You chose this_, Ted_.'

'I know.' There's a sigh. 'And I feel— '

'Hang on, you got to make the decision— you don't get to _feel_ anything about it." She's almost spitting the words out, and her body wants to shake all over. Feeling things is what's left for her. It's _all_ that's left for her, she thinks.

'Nan's... always there, just... waiting at home, because she knows I'll always go home. There's nowhere else I _can_ go.'

'Go flying.'

Because that seems to be the most obvious solution to any problem... Just fly away.

'There's nowhere to go. I'm already where I need to be, apparently.'

Apparently.

Then something comes to mind. Something warm and lovely and safe from the shadow cast by the merger and Don; their first kiss—

'It's one thing to want something, it's another to need it,' Peggy quotes.

She hears him shift the receiver from one ear to the other.

'That's awfully poetic,' he says.

'Well you said it.'

He nearly lets out a short laugh, 'And you remembered it?'

Yes, because _you_ said it.

Peggy stares at her hand as she reaches out to touch the typewriter. There's a smudge of oil on the ribbon. She makes a mental note to wind the ribbon tomorrow morning, or even just replace it. It's not something she can be bothered with at present.

'I can't do this right now— ' she begins.

He interrupts, his words flowing together as he tries to get them out, 'I shouldn't have called so late, how about tomor— '

'No, I can't talk to you. _At all_.'

'But we are talking, Peggy. This is us... Talking. We're actually doing far better than I thought we would.'

'Have either of us actually _said_ anything?

She waits as he takes a moment.

'_I_ think so.'

'Really. I'm hanging up. I don't want— '

'Please. _Please_ don't say that... '

'I don't want you ringing me. And I don't want to see you— '

'Please... Alright, I won't do this again. I won't call you up like this out of office hours. But I can't promise— '

They've managed the past few weeks with only a couple of Creative conference calls, but she'd had Stan in the office with her. Michael, too, not that he was any kind of support. With Lou's appointment, there really wasn't a reason for there to be any one-on-one calls.

'This conversation's gone in a circle.'

'Peggy... '

'Goodnight,' she says, with an air of finality...

But then she hesitates, and it's just long enough to hear his low, resigned tone...

'There's nothing here for me.'

The receiver lands on the hook with a crash.

* * *

Preview of chapter 3: Liquor runs out quick on Christmas Eve. Peggy/Stan


	3. Chapter 3 - December 24, 1968

**Summary: Liquor runs out quick on Christmas Eve.**

* * *

**Tuesday, December 24, 1968**

At a quarter to nine, the phone rings.

Peggy tosses the research files onto the coffee table and lunges across her couch for the phone. She stays in that awkward position, just in case it's him again, and she needs to hang up quickly.

'Hello?'

There's no response.

'_Hello?' _She sighs, 'Listen, T— '

A low chuckle cuts her off. 'And now I know you don't have plans for Christmas Eve.'

'Stan...'

'Who else would you expect?' Then, 'Shit, I didn't mean...'

Of course he knows.

'It's fine,' she says dismissively.

'It's not.'

There's a silence between them. Peggy stands and tucks the receiver between her ear and shoulder. In one free hand she scoops up the handset and walks over to the kitchen. She grabs the bottle of scotch she opened yesterday, and manages to pick up a tall glass tumbler too. It's not the ideal glass, but it'll do.

'You call me up just for that?' There's no malice in her voice, she knows there's rarely any reason to their late-night calls.

'No...' He draws the word out in a way that leads Peggy to suspect that maybe it _was_ one of the reasons. 'I thought I'd spread some holiday cheer.'

'Urgh,' Peggy sits down on the rug by her couch, resting her back against the armrest. She sets down the phone, bottle and glass, nesting in her little spot by the heater.

'Lighten up, Ebenezer.' Stan snickers at his own joke.

'Shut up,' he'll push her, but she'll push back.

She pours herself a drink, maybe a rather generous drop. She hears Stan take her cue and there's a clink of ice cubes falling into glass, then the pour of something wet. Sounds like another generous serving. Peggy looks towards her fridge. Ice? No, it should be okay. It's still cold in her front room despite the layers of clothing and the heater only a couple meters away.

Ice or no ice, it tastes good as it gets the back of her throat.

She just listens to him moving about in his own space; there's the sound of a chair being pulled back, legs scraping against hardwood floors; the flick of a lamp switch; then a comfortable sigh as he rifles through paper and then through a jar of markers and materials.

'What are you working on?'

Stan clears his throat as he settles in, 'It's just a sketch.'

Peggy finishes her drink, and without a beat, pours another. 'Let me guess, a nude— some girl's draped over your couch.'

'You know me too well,' his voice is smooth, low.

'You should hang up— concentrate on finishing it.' Peggy hears how her voice goes up at the end of her sentence. It's a question, a challenge that she hopes he doesn't accept.

'The drawing or the girl?' he gives a short chuckle.

... 'I should probably— '

'It's the view from my window.'

'Huh? What is?'

'What I'm drawing. It's a cityscape. No girl,' he sighs, '_unfortunately_.'

'Oh.'

'No need to sound so pleased, Chief. This winter's been a dry one.' Another long sigh, which turns into a yawn at the end.

'I'm sure you'll survive.' She can picture him smirking at the end of the line. The thought makes her smile.

'I need a top up,' he says.

Peggy looks down at her own glass; she's let her wrist relax and it's almost horizontal. She lays a hand flat against the rug... no damp spots... she must have drunk it all, then. When had that happened?

'Me too,' she replies.

'Right, rendezvous in two— don't hang up.'

'_I won't_.'

She wanders over to the kitchen counter. The bottle of scotch is still over by the couch, but she's got a taste for something different. Wine. Yes, that'll do. She pours it into her tall tumbler without any spills or splashes, which is a small victory.

'What'd you get?'

'Red,' she hiccoughs, 'it looks like cranberry juice.'

'I'm cutting you off after this one.'

She laughs, 'You can't. _You're not here._'

There's silence from the other end, then she just hears Stan's low hum.

'What have you got?'

'Something brown and expensive. Well, expensive for me.' Now he laughs.

'You should've saved it for a special occasion.'

'I did.'

* * *

'How's the drawing going?' she takes a sip of her drink. She'd switched back to scotch an hour ago. The bottle's at her her feet, next to a box of crackers.

'Done. I'm on to something else,' he pauses, 'Jeez, it's _terrible_.'

'What's it of?'

'My empty glass.' They both laugh, and it takes a long time to settle again.

Peggy's noticed how slow and low they're both started talking. Apart from the odd trip to their kitchens or lounges (or wherever the drinks are), they've both been sitting down for hours. The effect of all the liquor's sunk down through their limbs, making them heavy, tired... loose lipped.

They can go an easy five minutes without either saying a word. It's comfortable, it's good.

Stan laughs, and it shakes Peggy from the sleep she wasn't aware she was even falling into.

'What! What?' She hears the ruffling and shuffling of drawing paper and pens.

Stan clears his throat, 'Merry Christmas, Chief.'

'Shit. Really'

'Well isn't that nice.'

'Sorry, sorry. Merry Christmas. _Really_?' She sits up straight and twists around to try and get a view of her clock.

'An hour ago,' He sighs and she hears him settle on to his couch or bed- something soft. 'I take it someone didn't get a visit from Santa then...'

'Sound's like someone else didn't either,' she snipes back.

'There's nothing I want.'

Peggy moves to sit on her armchair. 'Not even a beautiful woman to draw?'

'Now, there's an idea.' He chuckles, 'there'd be some issue getting her down the chimney.'

'You don't _have _a chimney.'

There's a pause, then a distant laugh, like Stan's moved away from the receiver. He comes back, 'No, I don't. How did I not remember that?'

'Ask that empty glass you can't draw.'

'_Don't be cruel_,' Oh god, there's that voice. 'What did you ask for? What did you want to see under your tree. I bet you have a tree. I bet it's all dressed up too.'

Peggy looks at the tree. It's pathetic, but it's there.

'Come on, what did you ask for?'

'Nothing.' That's not true. She'd asked for something. She just didn't think she deserved him... it.

_Do you think you don't deserve his love?_

'I don't believe you. You're just trying to cover up the fact there's only lumps of coal.' He doesn't say that maliciously, and even Peggy laughs a little.

'You got me.'

* * *

Preview of chapter 4: Man is about to land on the moon. Ted is close to crashing. Ted/Peggy


	4. Chapter 4 - July 18, 1969

**Summary: While man is about to land on the moon, Ted is close to crashing. **

* * *

**Friday, July 18, 1969**

He'd assumed it was just about admin. The phone in "reception" had rung a good fifteen minutes ago. His secretary, Dee, had taken the call, but when it wasn't buzzed through to him, Ted took the chance to pour himself another drink. The domed lid of his globe-shaped drinks cabinet hadn't been shut at all over the past week.

'...Mr Chaough?'

He stirs, tightening his grip on the glass before it can slip to the floor.

'Mr Chaough?'

The sun had been busy setting while he'd dozed off.

'Mr— ' Dee's speaking through the intercom, but he simply shouts back. Her desk's only on the other side of the wall, a few feet away.

'What!'

She continues to use the intercom, 'New York for you. Miss Olsen.'

The chair squeaks as he pulls himself up to sit straight. 'I've got it,' he shouts, but he hesitates in picking up the receiver.

The door to his office opens gingerly, Dee poking her head in, 'Is there a problem? The light's indicating the call hasn't— '

'It's fine. I've got it.' Ted keeps his eyes fixed on her as he brings the receiver to his ear. He summons his most professional— most sober— tone. 'Peggy?'

'Ted!' She sounds exasperated. 'Pete's been in the office— he said— and honestly, I don't know whether to believe him— I don't. I can't— '

He rests the receiver against his chest. There's a slight vibration that tells him she's still talking.

'Dee, you can go.' He checks his watch; 7:15. 'What are you even still doing here?' He means for that to sound light, but it falls flat. She nods once and closes the door quietly behind her. Ted waits to hear her pack her purse and leave via the main door. It's a gamble whether Peggy will still be on the line. The handset is cold, still, and silent against his chest.

'Peggy... ' now alone again, his voice is small.

There's only silence, then a crackle somewhere along the connection.

Finally, a sigh. It rattles in his ear. 'Pete said you... '

'I turned off the engine, he's not lying.'

'Shit.'

Ted can't help but form a weak smile at that. It's unfamiliar and exhausting. 'Is that all you called to say? What's this, the first time this year?'

Another silence.

'I should be grateful,' he continues, 'at least now I know how to get your attention— '

'Ted!'

He lunges for a fresh bottle, then flops back into his chair.

'You can't say things like that,' she whispers.

The drink he's just poured suddenly loses its appeal as something bitter rises in his throat. He lets out a clipped laugh; who's he kidding— everything about him is bitter right now.

'You're in the office,' he drawls, changing the subject.

'Yes.'

'It's late.'

'I didn't want an audience.'

'So the place is empty? Here too.'

'It is, but... '

'What?'

'It's so loud... _all the time_.'

'I thought everyone had cleared out.'

'The computer,' there's a rustling and a clicking on the line. She's adjusting the receiver, he guesses; moving it from one ear to the other. 'I've got the door closed, but I can hear it. I can always here it. Sometimes even outside of the building... '

'I heard about... Have you seen him?'

Ted regrets asking when she goes quiet once more. Michael was a good kid. Mad, but brilliant.

'Burger Chef's on Monday... ' her voice has gotten very high. He recognises the sound of someone pretending they're okay.

'_Peggy?_'

'It's fine... ' she says, drawing the last syllable out.

'I don't belie— '

'It's fine.'

It's Ted's turn to stay silent. He runs his thumb along the edge of the wing of his model plane on the desk. Testing the weight, he flips it over all too easily. It's flimsy and light, and tumbles off the desk. He stands to lean over and inspect the wreck. The fuselage is spread across the carpet. It fascinates him that something so small can break into so many pieces.

'Burger Chef,' he announces, breaking his own silence. 'It'll go great.'

'Of course it will; Don's delivering the pitch isn't he?'

Ted can't tell if she's being sarcastic. Maybe he's not the only one bitter right now. 'I've told you, you can't hold _this_ against Don. It was my— '

'What?' She sounds truly confused for a second. Then she laughs. God, that sound hurts.

'Don did the right thing— Well, he did what I asked,' he says, 'you can't be angry with him for— '

'I'm not. Ted, really— I'm not anymore.' He can tell she's being honest; it's the most calm she's been all night. 'Things are _good_ between us... Better than good. We're— '

He turns the receiver away from his ear. All right, maybe he's not ready to hear her so happy just yet.

That drink on his desk looks appealing again. Tastes good too, and just for a moment he feels full, content. When he returns to her voice, the mood has shifted again.

'... I've been in that plane with you... '

His thought process has slowed. It takes him a while to find the subtext. '_Peggy_, I would _never_... '

There's a sharp intake of breath from her end of the line, and then more crackling, but in-between, he's sure there's something like a gasp or a sigh.

'How can I _possibly_ know that for sure? _I don't know you anymore_.'

'Yes, you do.'

As always, he wants to say more. And yet, as always, he doesn't.

'_Enjoy the moon-landing, Ted_,' she says softly, something final in her voice.

He doesn't say how much it has already affected him.

'Enjoy Burger Chef.'

'It has nothing to do with me anymore, and you know it,' she sighs.

After Peggy hangs up, Ted moves to retrieve the pieces of his model plane, but on the way ends up crashing onto the couch.

His last thought before falling into a deep sleep; that maybe he can remain unconscious through the whole thing... the moon landing, the return, the...

* * *

Preview of chapter 5: Post-pitch confessions and a new favourite song. Don/Peggy.


	5. Chapter 5 - July 26, 1969

So, it's a rather long chapter (for me anyway), but it's taken such a long time to write and upload. Hopefully that balances things out. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and where the story is heading... As always, feel free to comment! I love reading the responses:)

**Summary: Post-pitch confessions and a new favourite song. Don/Peggy**

* * *

**Saturday, July 26, 1969**

They stand across from each other; awkward, tired, and silent. Peggy waits for him to speak first. She's giving him that opportunity.

The sun is setting and there's a flood of light streaming in though the skyline and across the floor, the walls, their faces. When the low light meets Ted's face, Peggy is caught off-guard, just for a moment. For that second— and for the first time since she's seen him back in New York— the shadows on his features disappear. When he notices her stare, he shifts, and that deep-set look of exhaustion returns.

The office has nearly cleared out. Only a small group— ten or twelve of them maybe— had come here after Cooper's wake. This was their quiet goodbye; a drink shared amongst old friends— now, simply familiar faces— outside the office which for a short while belonged to an old man who few could say they knew well.

Cutler passes them on his way downstairs to leave. He nods to Peggy and lands a slap on Ted's shoulder. He doesn't flinch.

Peggy listens to the fading footfalls as Cutler takes the stairs and exits via Creative. The sun's in her eyes. She blinks quickly but doesn't shield her gaze. A cloud passes over. There's that brief blindness before her eyes can adjust. Ted's looking at her waist. At her shoulders. At her neck. Her lips. How long had he been watching her, she wonders. Had it just been this moment, or had it been since last November?

'I can't take another funeral,' he offers up eventually. 'That's _it_. No more.'

'I don't think anyone _enjoys_ them... '

Peggy starts at Don's voice behind her. She'd lost track of where he'd got to— or even if he had left already. She'd just assumed that was the case. The sky's clouded and dim enough now that she can just make out the faint reflection in the window of Don standing at her left shoulder.

Ted nods. That's it, that's his goodbye for the day. He takes a few steps down, then gives one last curious glance at the pair he's leaving.

Don watches him the whole way down.

'There were a lot of big names there,' she says, turning to face Don, 'from a lot of big agencies.'

'They're sharks looking for an in with a client— any client.' he says coldly. Don looks out at the view, his face softening. 'It's quiet.'

Peggy passes him to collapse into the couch opposite Cooper's office. 'You know why? We're finally far enough away from that computer. How about we move Creative up here? Set Harry and Jim up next to the damn thing— it's _their_ baby. We could rearrange the office before Monday.'

'I'm sure you could.' Don crosses into Roger's office, but reemerges immediately, already making a beeline for Pete's. 'This is why everyone left,' he calls out. 'Where'd all the liquor go?'

Peggy giggles, then has to work hard to suppress a hiccough. 'I saw Harry take a bottle out under his jacket. Try Jim's middle drawer.' She rests her head to one side against the back of the couch, watching as Don strides past and out of view. There's the sound of the drawer sliding along its runners, a frantic rustling, a silence, then a sharp slam. Don returns holding a quarter bottle of something brown and— knowing Cutler's taste— expensive. Don carries it over like a trophy, holding it up high.

'How did _you_ know about _that?_' he asks, smirking as he unscrews the cap.

'Ted.' That's the short answer.

Back at CGC, Ted had once complained about Jim traveling around the office, filling up on the quality stuff from his colleague's carts, but that he kept a bottle stashed away in his desk for emergencies which he refused to share with anyone.

Her response gets raised eyebrows from Don, but that's all.

Sometimes Peggy wants him to push— to ask more, or at least ask _something_. He knows so many half-truths about her, so many incomplete stories and histories.

Without asking, he tops up her near-empty glass. It'll make for an interesting blend. After filling his own glass, that bottle too is empty.

'To Bert,' he says with a sigh.

Peggy meets his glass with hers. She's lost track of how many times that toast has been made this past week. There's a fog in her head, and she finds herself speaking without filtering first— 'Everyone talks about him like he was this... this endearing old man, some sort of doddering, loveable _fool_... but I don't know if that's true. He would frighten me. Easily.' She frowns, and crosses an arm protectively around her waist, pretty sure she's just said the wrong thing to the right person.

Don surprises her, letting out a short laugh. 'You're not wrong,' he says, 'he tried to blackmail me into signing a contract with Sterling Cooper.'

'But you _did_ sign.'

'I did. It worked.' Don downs half his drink in one go.

'Oh.' She's smart enough to know not to bother asking questions. If there _were _to be any answer, it would be too vague, too cryptic, to be of any real value.

He finishes his drink. 'Don't you want to ask what it was he had over me? Aren't you _burning_ to know.' He's got that look set on his face. It's a challenge.

Still, she doesn't rise to the provocation. 'Right. Like you wouldn't resent me if I tried.' She does smile though, just to let him know that it's not a dig at him, more of a learned assumption. Peggy smiles into her glass, right until it meets her lips. It takes a while. She's had enough to drink that every movement feels slow and heavy. She likes it.

There's a silence as she takes a long sip. Don's waiting to look her straight in the eyes when she's done. He's shuffled forward in his seat.

'I never resent anything you do.' He says that firmly. Softly.

A dozen contradictions to his statement flash through her mind. 'I know _that's_ not true.' She keeps the eye contact, gives a smile that says more in her eyes than with her mouth. Don mirrors the look.

'All right,' he says quietly. He goes to say something more, his lips nearly parting, his jaw moving, but whatever it is gets swallowed back down and replaced with a slight nod.

Peggy breaks the connection first, leaning back in the seat. She gives in to the urge to kick off her heels and tuck her legs up under her. She could fall asleep so easily now. It's been a long, long week.

'This needs to be remedied,' she hears him say. He's looking at the bottom of his empty glass.

* * *

Don makes the trip downstairs to find a fresh bottle. He goes to Ted's office rather than Lou's— which reminds him, he should know soon enough whether he'll be getting his old office back. Anyway, as resolved as he's feeling with Ted Chaough right now, he wants to take something that belongs to him. He'll start with his liquor.

He's about to take his first step back up to Peggy when he falters; a wave of unsteadiness travelling through his body.

'Peggy!' he calls. Could she have fallen asleep already? She was looking pretty worn out. '_Peggy!_'

'_What?_' She sounds alert enough.

'I can't face these stairs again.'

There's a pause. '_And... _'

'Come down here.'

There's a shuffling sound above him to indicate Peggy's on her way. Don has an idea to mask the hum of the computer. He crosses the floor to Lou's office and turns the radio on and the volume up. The seven o'clock news bulletin's just starting.

Back at the foot of the staircase, he can hear the radio clearly in the empty office. He always forgets how eerie the place can be without the tapping of typewriters, the click-clack of secretaries heels, or the insistent ringing of telephones. All that noise is so soothing to him. He'd go crazy too if he'd been cooped up in the California office.

Peggy's making her way slowly down the stairs, distracted by the view through the window. Her expression interests him; it's something between a frown and a smile. There's a battle going on inside that head. It actually bothers him that he can only guess what it might be about. Ted. McCann. Bert. The moon. Berger Chef— No, that one's been resolved. It could be the same thing that Don's been considering ever since the deal with McCann was confirmed— What happens now that there are so many high-end Creatives back in the New York office? McCann wanted him specifically, he knows that. So what, there's three Heads of Creative now? No one's made it clear yet what happens to Lou. His contract should be under review now that they've been bought. And Ted doesn't want the stress anymore. Would he resort to Copy Chief? What happens to Peggy, would she and Ted share the title? The idea of them sharing anything twists the knot in his gut. There's something there, a thought he can't quite identify, let alone turn into action.

On the radio, the news has finished, and a song he doesn't recognise starts playing.

Don holds a hand out to help Peggy down the last few steps. She doesn't notice until she bumps into it, taking hold of it to steady herself. They stay like that for a moment. Peggy's grip on him relaxes, but she doesn't take her hand away from his.

'Everything keeps changing, but nothing's changed,' she says quietly, looking back out the window.

Don waits for more, but she doesn't offer it. When he thinks about it later, he'll realise there didn't need to be any clarification. Everything keeps changing, but nothing's _changed_. It's complete, and it's true.

'Come on,' he says, giving her a gentle tug. She follows his lead and gets to the bottom of the staircase. They sit on the last step. Don offers her the bottle from Ted's office, but she shakes her head. She's smoothing out the skirt of her dress. He can't remember another time he's seen her wearing black. There's a vague memory of seeing her after Frank Gleason's funeral, but it's just that— vague. That whole weekend is a fog.

'I'm getting a divorce. Again.' He's not sure why he's saying that out loud, or to Peggy, but it feels good.

Peggy stops what she's doing to look at him. 'What? But Megan— ' She interrupts herself, replacing words with a sympathetic tilt of her head.

Don evaluates her state; exhausted, but not drunk. Good. It'll be nice to have a conversation both of them will remember.

'It was... ' he almost says _mutual_, 'a long time coming.' Don puts the bottle aside, bringing both his hands together in his lap. 'And... I think... a lot of people saw that. Maybe even before I did.'

Peggy offers a noncommittal hum... Don laughs.

'I'll count you as one of them.'

'No, no— it's just... ' she says quickly, 'I don't know. What _would_ I know?'

They stay in their comfortable silence until Peggy stands up abruptly, leaning over the stair rail, listening to something coming from Lou's office.

'I haven't heard this in a while,' she says.

The melody is quiet, but familiar.

_...I've had a few. But then again, too few to mention. I did what I had to do..._

'Everything's been about the moon lately,' she adds.

_...each careful step along the byway. And more, much more than this..._

'Come on,' he says, standing and extending a hand out to her again.

Peggy grins. 'What, This is a thing we do now?'

He waits for her, and eventually she takes his hand, following him to the floorspace in front of the conference room.

_...But through it all, when there was doubt, I ate it up and..._

Peggy laughs when Don pulls her towards him and spins her. They settle into the same rhythm as last time, Peggy resting her head against his chest. He forgets how much shorter she is.

_...I've loved, I've laughed and cried. I've had my fill, my share of losing..._

'I bet you won't miss that small office. Looking forward to getting your old one back?' Her voice is muffled against his suit.

'_Yes_.' He's tired of sitting in a dead man's chair.

Peggy giggles. The vibrations of her laughter resonate through him.

'I didn't think it would fit in there,' she drawls.

He leans back a little to look at her, 'What?'

'Your ego.' She looks up at him, smirking.

'Funny.' He spins her out again, catching her off guard.

_...For what is a man, what has he got? If not himself, then he has naught..._

Settled again, they turn slowly around on the spot. Somehow, the thought of Bert's message is triggered. It plays quietly in his mind. He's aware that his grip on Peggy has tightened, but she seems nonplussed. The best thing about this moment? It's not costing him a thing.

He feels Peggy shift; not away, just to get more comfortable.

'We're dancing to the news,' she says.

He focuses on sound coming from the radio. 'Technically, we're just standing to the news.' It's true.

They remain as they are though, perhaps too tired to stand on their own unsupported.

Don takes in a deep breath, letting it out as a long sigh. 'I'm getting another divorce,' he says again. He's not sure why he's bringing it up once more. Probably in the hope he gets the response he wants... not that he's certain what it would look or sound like.

Peggy shifts again, resting her hand just about over where his heart would be. He reaches to touch a wave in her hair, but she anticipates his move and steps back. His hand falls back to his side. Without her close proximity, he feels a cool chill.

'What happened to your "rules"?' she says, wrapping her arms around herself. She looks confused, almost shaking with... what, rage? She doesn't look angry though. Just... perplexed.

'People do things,' he says simply.

'_People do things_? That's all you can say?' And now she sounds resigned— sad, almost. She's going through the emotional spectrum pretty quickly.

Don shifts on the spot, composing himself, pushing his fists into his pockets. It's an attempt to appear cool, calm, and collected.

'I'll see you...' Peggy says slowly, bemused.

Don raises his eyebrows, 'Monday?'

'Yes, _Monday_, when else— ' she's shaking her head, but there's a smile creeping onto her features. Don watches the corners of her mouth twitch.

'All right,' he croons, 'Good-night Peggy.'

'Good-night.'

But neither take a step. It's another stand-off for who will make the first move.

* * *

Preview of chapter 6: Peggy receives more questions than answers. Peggy/Stan.


	6. Chapter 6 - July 27, 1969

Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter... things kept getting in the way. Good news is I have the rest of the story planned (but am open to suggestions and spontaneous changes-of-mind) and can say there will be 10 chapters in total, meaning we're now over halfway through. As always, please comment! I love reading the responses!

**Summary: Peggy receives more questions than answers. Peggy/Stan **

* * *

**Sunday, July 27, 1969**

The cushion falls from her lap to the floor as she stirs. Peggy can't remember why she'd fallen asleep on the couch rather than on her bed, furthermore, what had caused her to wake so abruptly. Too slowly, her senses adjust to hear her phone ringing. It's at her feet as she pulls herself up into a sitting position. Peggy simply stares at the phone as it gives a final ring. Her eyelids feel heavy, as does the rest of her body. So that's why she's on the couch then, rather than the bed— because it was closer to the front door when she'd eventually returned from Cooper's informal wake at the office.

The shrill ring of her phone cuts in again.

1:20am. It's too late for this, but out of an exhausted curiosity, Peggy reaches for the receiver.

'Jesus, Peg, what happened?'

'_Stan?_'

'You said you were getting coffee. I heard you come back, and you hung up on me.'

'What? Stan, it's late—'

'Really. I hadn't noticed.'

'I'm too tired for whatever this is—'

'Yeah, well, you woke me up first, got me all... _intrigued_, and then, well, worried.'

'What? Please, this can wait for tomorrow—'

'No. I'm serious Chief, you've got me worried.'

'_What about your baby?'_

Stan laughs.

'Why are you laughing? You finished with her, didn't you!'

'No, no. It's just—you already asked me that.'

'When?'

'When you called... '

'_When?_'

'Seriously? I don't know, an hour ago? Hour and a half?'

The full cup of coffee on her side table is still warm to her touch.

'What did I say?' she says it quickly, hearing the panic in her own voice.

'Ah... ' Stan drawls, 'leverage.'

'Don't screw with me, I'm not in the mood—'

'All right, all right.'

'So what did I say?'

'I don't really know. Honest.'

'So you call me up in the middle of the night—forgetting for a second that yes, I called you first—to ask me about something neither of us remember me saying. Great. Perfect.'

'Hey, _I_ remember. Cool it. It was just... a little nonsensical.'

Peggy doesn't know what to say to that.

Stan's tone slips into something sympathetic, lowering and slowing down, 'I'm guessing you saw Ted after the wake? You mentioned the office... Something about... what was it, rules or codes or standards. That was it, double standards.'

The office?

_Don._

_Shit._

Stan's still talking, 'It's just a matter of setting into a new routine. It'll be hard, but—'

'Not Ted. It wasn't—' Peggy cuts herself off again. It's unfamiliar territory. There's just some things they don't talk about. They'll discuss the good things about their love lives, the flirting, the tension, the nights and the mornings after, but never this. Never the confusion or the rejection. Never the hurt. This, she'd classify as confusion. Or better yet, bewilderment.

Stan groans, exasperated, 'Jesus, don't get all vague again.'

'Are you really awake?'

'_Yes_.'

'Have you seen Michael again?'

'What? Yes— Peg, I know this has nothing to do with Ginsberg.'

'You've seen him? Recently?'

'_Yes_.'

'How is he?'

'I want to say he's fine, but... he's calmer.'

'Is he talking?' Peggy plays idly with a scrap of paper on her table, furling the corner between two fingers.

'You kidding? He never shuts up.'

Peggy lets out a sigh of relief. 'Good. _Good_.' Then, almost immediately, a rush of panic follows. 'What does he talk about?'

'Ugh, everything. Anything.'

'Has he asked about me?'

She hears only the rustle of the phone being adjusted at the other end of the line.

'Stan?'

'... He talks about you. But he talks about everyone, even Bob.'

She's trying to interpret Stan's long pause. The paper corner she'd been playing with is so worn now that it breaks away in her fingers. Peggy flicks it away across the room.

'Peggy?'

'Hmm?'

'What's this about? Really?'

'He said he felt things... for me...' Peggy's fairly sure she's still referring to Michael and not... She wants for Stan to laugh, but he doesn't.

'What did you say?' He sounds so serious.

'That working with people, seeing them every day, you can get confused. It's not love.'

Stan hums in contemplation.

'It's true,' she says.

'It can be complicated,' he says slowly, drawing out each syllable.

'_Don't._'

Now he laughs, '_What?_'

'That would be all I need.'

'Poor Peggy, too many men in love with her,' he croons sarcastically.

'They don't _love_ me,' she spits, exasperated. 'Ted— Ted loved the idea of me, but couldn't follow through. You, well, I'm familiar and I'm convenient— '

'Ouch,' he says, laughing.

'— Michael's deranged— '

'You don't mean that,' she hears him say in the background.

'— and Don— ' this time she interrupts herself, and changes tact, 'It's late, okay, sorry I called, this can wait— This, _this _isn't even a thing— ' She's hoping the rush of babbling will distract Stan from really listening to what she's saying, and what she's _not_ said. Hopefully he's tired. Hopefully he's drunk, or at least hungover. Maybe he's high— would that be too much to hope for?

'Don _what_?'

Unfortunately, he's completely in his right mind.

'That's really great news that Michael's perked up— ' she's trying her best to sound upbeat and unperturbed.

'_Peggy... _'

'I don't know, I don't _know_, all right.'

There's a silence between them. It could have been awkward, but Peggy welcomes the reprieve.

'He's getting divorced,' she says eventually.

'_Again?_'

Peggy can't help but laugh a little.

'What?'

'He said that too.'

Peggy hears the flick of Stan's lighter and the sizzle of cigarette paper igniting.

'Is this another "Ted" scenario?' He's lowered his voice to that deep gravelly tone, 'Swearing he'll do one thing then bailing out?'

'What? No— I'm not a factor in this. They've been in trouble for a while. You really don't notice these things at all, do you?'

'What'd he say?'

'Nothing.' How is she supposed to explain that she just knew, just _understood_ what could have happened if she'd stayed in that office any longer... If she'd stayed in that moment.

'Peg, don't take this the wrong way— I'm not tryin' to be cruel, but are you _sure_— is there a chance maybe... you could of... ' He leaves the question open for her to finish herself. Had she misread the scenario?

'There was a moment,' Jesus, that sounds so childish when she says it aloud.

'Shit! He kissed you!'

'What? No. _No._' The longer this conversation goes on, the more they sound like a pair of teenage girls. _Reckon you're going steady now?_

'_Did you want him to?_' Stan's voice is practically dripping.

'Don't use that voice on me Stan.'

There's a rumbling laugh through the phone line.

'Come on... ' he drawls, '_Peggy?_'

'No. I don't know. No.' But the words sound clunky and lack conviction.

Don was just stumbling around for whatever— whoever— was close at hand.

'I don't want to just be convenient,' she says. She wants to be _wanted_. Ted "needed" her, Duck "needed" her, Pete "needed" her, Stan needed "this" that night in the office. She was tired of being a supplement to these men. Admiration, authority, alcohol, grief. That's what Peggy filled the void of. Don needed her yesterday too. If he couldn't keep Megan by his side, he needed to prove to himself that he could still be desired.

She considers Stan's question again, 'No.'

But how many women had said no to Don Draper? How many would, given the chance?

Then again, Peggy wasn't known for being conventional.

'Sure?'

* * *

Preview of chapter 7: There's a conversation that has to happen eventually. Don/Ted/Peggy


	7. Chapter 7 - August 6, 1969

Another long chapter this time, but believe me, a lot has been cut already! Thank you for continuing to read and leave such encouraging feedback— it's so nice to know you're enjoying it! As always, feel free to comment, as I love reading your responses :)

**Summary: There's a conversation that has to happen eventually. Don/Ted/Peggy**

* * *

**Wednesday, August 6, 1969**

Don was going to be late, but he could afford to be. New management, new rules... Well, more like old habits.

They'd waved Lou off at the close of last week. It had been... mutually beneficial for him to leave. Roger and Don had pitched the hell out of selling Avery to another agency, convincing them it would be SC&amp;P's loss... It left Avery's pride relatively intact. Of course, he had no idea how much laughter and celebration there'd been afterwards. Even Ted joined in the celebrations, sharing that same sense of relief at Lou's departure. Peggy had shared a drink with them, but just the one, and Don watched as it was emptied in one gulp. She wasn't going to hang around.

It took the weekend, Monday and Tuesday to pack up Lou's furnishings, clean the office, and get it back to Don's taste. He'd toyed with placing the desk in a different position, but it just didn't feel right. However, he couldn't keep the old couch; it was tied to things he wanted to sever himself from, like his first night with Megan.

The separation was progressing organically; there was the occasional phone call with vague questions about the kids, New York, the weather, auditions... but usually they only spoke to arrange packing and sending Megan's belongings. Over the past month, the apartment had gradually been emptied of her things; first the clothes, Don had packed those carefully, taking his time to test himself, trying to remember where she had worn certain dresses and when. It had become a glamorous blur. Colourful, but barely distinguishable.

He'd gone looking for the boxes of childhood things she'd brought with her when they moved in, but soon realised she'd already taken them, probably in anticipation of the divorce. She was clever, no one could ever make him say otherwise.

The apartment didn't _feel _emptier. It didn't look like someone's presence had been stripped from it.

* * *

10am, and the office is bustling with noise, underscored with the hum of the computer.

There's a sharp laugh ahead of him. Don can see Stan's office door is open. He steps towards the wall and continues waking towards the sound slowly.

'...You know, I bet he's a bit...' he hears Stan say, and he must make some gesture because it gets another laugh from Peggy.

'Don't! He's a client.'

'Stop smiling then,' Stan says, his voice low and heavy.

There's a rustling of paper as Don reaches Stan's doorway. He can't linger, but in his momentary hesitation over whether to step inside, Peggy walks out and turns sharply, nearly colliding with him.

'Oh... ' she says warily, steadying the files and art boards she's carried out with her.

'_Morning_.'

'Is it still? We've been here for hours. Burger Chef want ideas for a winter spot.' He can tell she's trying to show him up for being late, put her prim attitude is somewhat undercut as a thin file slips out from her stack and spills out onto the floor behind her.

'Jesus, Peg, what are you _doing_,' calls Stan, emerging to pick up the loose paper. He straightens with a groan, a cigarette clasped between his teeth until he has a free hand to take it out. 'Oh,' he says, seeing Don.

Over the last week or so Don's noticed the odd way Stan's been observing him, especially in Creative meetings. 'I saw your name's back on the door,' he says, indicating in the general direction of Don's office. He places the file on top of Peggy's stack, then reaches about halfway down and takes away some of the load. They're so comfortable together, standing close enough for their arms to touch. They have a familiarity with each other that hadn't even occurred to Don until recently, let alone bothered him.

Peggy makes the first move, manoeuvring around Don. Stan follows with a nod.

He waits until they're out of view before stepping into Stan's office. Where had they been sitting as they talked? Had Peggy been leaning against the small cleared space at the edge of the desk when she had been laughing? Maybe they'd both been sitting on the couch, looking over the files.

He wants to get this awkwardness out of the way. He thought it would pass... that _feeling_. But as he'd packed up Megan's things he found himself smiling, even whistling along to that song. Of course, then there was the sound of Peggy's voice, asking him what had happened to his rules.

What _had_ happened to his rules? He'd become tired of them. It wasn't as though he'd exactly stuck to them in the past anyway, so why not abandon them altogether.

* * *

'Like you never left,' says Ted, standing in the doorway to Don's office.

He'd only just sat down at his desk about ten minutes ago, as distraction after distraction kept popping up along the way.

'I don't know, I'm sure this desk was closer to the window,' he says lightly. Something feels off balance somehow. The view seems subtly— and irritatingly— different.

'You free to talk?' Ted's trying his best to look at ease with his return to the New York office, but his cheeriness is forced somewhat, Don can tell.

He indicates for Ted to take a seat in one of the new armchairs by the far window. Whoever picked the new suite out- probably Dawn- picked one that matched the painting he'd had in his office for years; a charcoal colour with burnt orange accents.

Without asking, he's already poured two glasses, handing one over before taking a seat himself. He rests his forearms on his shins and cradles the rye in his hands.

While he's happy to put off catching up on the latest Burger Chef file, Ted's fidgety silence is wearing his patience.

'Settling back in?'

'Yes,' Ted says, distracted, 'Nan— she'll stay in California for now— the kids, you know how it is. I can't move them again so soon with school... '

Don grimaces, 'It's tough.'

'We said we'd wait a month or so, see how everything... fits. There's a lot of decisions to make.'

'Is Peggy a factor in this?' He can't stop himself from asking.

'What do you think,' Ted says sarcastically, taking a sip of his drink. 'I thought three thousand miles was _enough_,' Ted laughs. '_Every day_,' he says quietly, looking at his glass.

Don leans back in his chair, watching the other man slowly self-destruct.

'I was _happy_, Don. Actually happy. You haven't been married as long as I have, but you forget. Sure, you smile, you laugh, but it's all so _tedious—_ then bam! Everything is good again, and new, and _vibrant_, and she did that. She _did_ that. But it's over so quickly,' he's frowning at the thought, speaking slowly as he pours out his soul, 'because you can't _do_ what you want to _do_, and _every second in their presence is agony_.'

Don's transfixed, there's a poeticism in the man that he recognises in himself.

'You think they realise the power they have?'

'Some do,' says Don. Peggy? he doubts it. He'd love to see her reaction to what he's just heard— even better, he'd love to repeat it himself. He tries to recall the exact wording, but it doesn't sound right in his voice. He'd have to do his own work.

'That's not what I'm here about— ' says Ted, 'I want to do something about my office.'

* * *

'Dawn, get Miss Olson.'

'Yes, Mr Draper.'

They'd shuffled Meredith over to another desk, so in the meantime, Dawn was covering her old duties again. He'd be happy if it stayed that way.

It was only a minute before Peggy stepped into his office; the benefit of only being a few doors down.

'Yes?' She sounds wary.

'Take a seat,' Ted actually looks a little nervous as Peggy passes him to sit on the couch. She deliberates where to sit, finally, opting for an armrest, she sits on the side closest to Ted.

'The desk's closer to the wall,' she says to no on in particular.

Don shakes out a cigarette as Ted leads the discussion.

'We both agree you need more space.'

Peggy narrows her eyes and tilts her head slightly to one side. Don catches the quick glance in his direction.

'You need a new office, Peggy— '

'We're getting more space? _Where_?'

'You are. You're getting my office.'

'... And where will you be?' It's amusing to Don just how suspicious she sounds about the idea.

'I'll take the one Don's just cleared— ' Ted's one of the few people who didn't refer to it as "Lane's office".

'Or you could share,' Don interrupts, 'You're practically doing the same job now anyway.' He watches Peggy, and she looks to Ted. Don waits for someone to protest, but he can see that Ted's quickly warming to the idea.

'No... ' Peggy says slowly, still studying Ted. 'I'm fine where I am. Have you thought this through?' She turns to Don, 'No matter what you've agreed, all this "being part of the team", and it's great, Ted, really.' She glances back at him with a brief smile, 'He's still a partner. It'll reflect badly on me.'

'_How_?' cries Ted, throwing his arms open.

Peggy hesitates, opening her mouth to speak, but rethinking her choice of words. 'It's not exactly a secret, is it. Enough people have... said things,' she says to Ted, a hint of sympathy— even regret— in her voice.

Don clears his throat, drawing their attention to him. 'Worried I'll see you sneaking in late,' he jokes, gesturing towards the door across from his desk. 'Forget them. Use it, take the office, Peggy.'

He hears his mistake before he can stop himself.

Peggy's jaw tightens. 'Because that's the _only_ way I move forward here— I sleep way to the top, What next, _Don_? Who do I screw to get your job?'

'Hold on— ' Ted attempts to interject, even leaning forward to place a hand on her arm. Peggy doesn't notice, she's talking only to Don now, she stands up before Ted can reach her.

'Roger? I'll go see when he's available.' She takes a few steps towards the door, stops, sighs, and turns around. With her hands propped on her hips, she addresses the floor, 'Give us our Creative lounge back. That would _actually_ be helpful. No one would ask questions.'

Ted stands too, placing his hand on the small of Peggy's back. 'You're right,' he says cheerfully, as though her outburst never happened. 'We'll think it through some more. Don?'

He shrugs, taking in how Ted's hand hasn't left Peggy. It's hardly a romantic gesture, but it's more familiar than Don could manage with her.

'I have a lot to do,' Peggy sighs. Don cuts in front of her to open the door. She shakes her head at him as she leaves.

Ted's grinning as he rolls his shirt cuffs up before crossing his arms. 'She's right.'

Don closes the door. '_Really_?' He snatches up his glass from the table and refills it in one smooth motion. He doesn't offer Ted a top-up, just returns to his own seat. Ted follows suit.

'Move Moira, take out the desk, the plants, one of the panels closest to the window— ' Ted draws a semi circle in the air, 'Take off the door, have it open like before, and get a couch between the doorways. Bring in the table— what happened to the old one? Never mind, get a better one. It's in view of the conference room. Clients can see us, we can see them— Everyone's happy.' His eyes are wide and bright. He hasn't lit up like this for months.

Don takes a long sip of his drink, considering Ted over the top of his glass. He can't fault the idea. 'And you'd still take the other office? _Next _to Peggy's?

'It solves everything.' Ted smiles, enthused, then stops abruptly as something occurs to him.

'Roger... she _was_ joking about that?'

Don can't stop himself from laughing, which seems to reassure Ted.

'And before that? You said— I know— But there are rumours... '

'I know what I said,' Don leaves his reply ambiguous, finishing his drink, letting his body language do the lying for him.

Ted's processing it. 'There's history, I can understand that. Is she happy do you think?' Ted's looking down at his hands, 'She'd been _furious _with you, hated you nearly as much as she hated me. We spoke a few weeks ago, and then suddenly it was _good, _she'd said. _Better than good_. I couldn't listen to her. I _hated _that she'd forgiven you.' He shakes his head in confusion, but still, he's smiling.

He's trying to look sympathetic as he listens, but every word Ted says is sparking something. There's some urge to leave the room and head straight to her office.

'Like you said, there's history.'

'I should have stayed,' says Ted, standing to leave. 'I should track Roger down, get this Creative lounge underway.' So much of his initial enthusiasm has seeped away.

'You asked before— ' says Don, 'I think she is.'

Ted nods.

* * *

He can hear Peggy's quick footsteps approaching before she appears in the open doorway.

'What did you say to him!' She looks flushed.

The office has nearly cleared out for the evening— only a few people with nothing to go home to remain. Don _could_ go back to the apartment and pack up Megan's last box, get it to her before the weekend like he'd said he would, but for now he's content to enjoy the view of the night skyline from his desk. The Burger Chef file is open in front of him, though only the first few pages have been read.

'Sorry?' He's not planing on giving anything away.

'He asked if we were "still involved".'

His features twist into a smirk, 'If he has to ask— '

'You know exactly what I mean. Stop _fishing_. Just stop.'

'Peggy, be sensible,' he raises his eyebrows, hoping to hell he looks composed. Inside, he's so unsteady with anticipation. Why hadn't he thought to turn the radio on?

'Why did you have to... ' she waves her hand around her face.

'What is _this_?' He mimics her gesture, laughing to himself.

'Ted once got mad that I touched his hand in a meeting. It was an _accident_, but he said I couldn't _touch_ him like that. I didn't understand it. Now I do. You can't _toy_ with... ' She leaves the thought incomplete, looking like she doesn't know whether to stand, sit, stay, or go. She settles on pouring herself a drink. A large one. She sits down carefully where she'd been earlier in the day, setting down her glass after a long gulp. Her dress— the dark blue one with the red panels— is restricting her movement, and she undoes the decorative buttons at the side to loosen the skirt, then sits back further into seat.

'What did you say?'

'The truth,' she says, 'Don't think he believed it though. Someone seems to have convinced him otherwise.' She even laughs, and that's what does it, breaking him out of his charade of composed indifference.

Don brings the bottle of rye with him, taking a seat where Ted had been that morning. He tops-up her glass. 'You said we were the same person some times,' he says, treading carefully, trying hard to keep his tone dry and sarcastic. 'And clearly you, what? _Loved him?'_

Peggy simply looks him in the eye, not giving anything away.

'But the idea of sharing _anything_ with me... is _so_ ludicrous.'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Because... '

'You're a writer, Peggy, do better.'

That strikes a chord. Peggy shuffles forward to reach for her drink, though only turns it around on the table, twisting it one way then the other.

'Because you're _Don Draper,_' she says. 'Because you _just_ left your wife.'

'It was mutual.'

'Does that change anything?' Peggy looks at him directly, asking that seriously. She shakes her head. 'Because... we don't "go there"... ' She looks back at her drink, still playing with the glass.

Against his better judgement, Don reaches to touch a wave in her hair, just as he had tried to the night of Cooper's wake. She doesn't move away.

'This was good again,' she says lightly, 'I liked having you at my side in that pitch. I thought, "yes, he's finally seen me as a writer, as a woman, not_ his secretary"_. I thought you were proud— Shit, not _proud_, Idon't know.._.'_

Confident that things are going as he'd hoped, Don reaches to take both her hands in his, shifting right to the edge of his seat to do so.

'It's tainted now,' she says.

Don lets out a long sigh. If she'd just look at him, just listen to his voice. 'You know me, Peggy.'

She chuckles, but still avoids his eye. 'Why does everyone say that. How about you all stop lying to _everyone else_, rather than wait for someone to come along and "understand" you.'

He can't argue with her, so he moves a hand to the side of her face. When she leans into his palm he is surprised how happy it makes him.

'Don't,' she says slowly, finally looking at him, still leaning into his hand until just briefly he can feel her lips brush over his thumb. It's wonderful, but it's gone before he can process it. 'Haven't you noticed? Every man I'm involved with, every man who says he feels something for me, ends up broken.' Peggy had looked solemn as she said this, but then the corners of her mouth twitch, Don can feel the movement. 'Or stabbed,' she adds, grinning at Don's surprise. 'I shouldn't laugh... ' He can tell she wants to though.

That's it, he moves completely out of his comfort zone, and leans in quickly to kiss her. He feels her hand on the centre of his chest. Just for a second she holds him there, gripping on to the lapel of his suit, then gently pushes him away.

'You've lost something,' she says, her voice a hoarse whisper 'I understand that. I live that _every day_, Don. You can't fill that void with alcohol or sex, or... or— '

'Try,' he says, leaning in.

Peggy waits until he's about to make contact before she speaks. 'Go back to your apartment, Don. Eat, drink, sleep, and think this through, okay?' She gently pushes him back so she can stand. Peggy straightens her dress while Don watches. He doesn't know how to say good bye, maybe she doesn't either, because she just rests her hand on his shoulder. He takes it, holds it in his.

Peggy nods, pulling her hand away.

He listens to her footsteps as she walks out of his office and back to her own. They're much slower than when she'd arrived.

* * *

**Preview of chapter 8: Nobody wants to be home alone. Peggy/Don.**


	8. Chapter 8 - August 10, 1969

Only two chapters to go after this one...

This was a difficult chapter to write and refine. I'm curious how these events will be handled in the show. Most likely there will be some link to Megan, but I thought Peggy's character would be effected in a slightly different way.

Huge thanks to everyone who has been reading, subscribing, following, commenting, and leaving kudos (I publish this on both AO3 and FanFiction). It's so lovely to know that people are enjoying my writing! I hope you continue to enjoy the rest of this story :)

**Summary: Nobody wants to be home alone. Peggy/Don**

* * *

**Sunday, August 10, 1969**

Peggy wakes to the sound of sirens at a quarter to five. For a moment she can't recall why she feels so uneasy. And then she remembers. Reason one; Don. Reason two; yesterday's newspapers, still spread out on her kitchen counter.

Her shock had been delayed. When the news had first come through the day before on the television and on the radio, then later in the newspapers, she'd followed the reports about the Cielo Drive murders with a constricting tightness in her throat, but it all managed to feel very far away.

It's only when she gives in to the inevitable early start to her Sunday, rises to make coffee, and sees the headlines again, that she gets a lurching, retching feeling in her gut. She wants to double over from the pain, but just makes it to a chair. Peggy grips on to the sides of her waist and tries to focus on calming the rhythm of her breathing. The pressure of her fingers dig in at the base of her ribs. It hurts, but somehow, that's better.

It's not the events in Los Angeles that she's thinking about— it's Julio. She wants to laugh because she's managed to make this about her own pain. The urge disgusts her.

Peggy tries to work back through her train of thought— She'd been pregnant, almost due, and now there was no baby... There was _no _baby... She didn't want him, they wouldn't let her keep him even if she had... He'd been taken away... Julio had been taken away... There was no child left for her to love...

Without registering the decision to move, Peggy's holding her fresh coffee, her hands burning against the ceramic mug. As she gulps the drink down, the black coffee scolds her tongue and throat. It's an oddly welcome distraction.

Sirens cut through the silence again, this time sounding even closer. Peggy can't take it. Yesterday, she'd been fine. Today, she doesn't want to be in her apartment alone.

She resolves to go into the office— just as soon as the sun's come up.

* * *

The streets and subway are like any other Sunday, but the people— the women especially— are alert, aware, on edge.

* * *

Surprisingly, Peggy isn't alone in the elevator up to the SC&amp;P offices. She recognises the young secretary's face vaguely, even attempts to offer up a smile of acknowledgement, but it comes out as a tight grimace. The young woman mirrors Peggy's expression back at her.

In fact there are a few secretaries in the office. They're sitting at their desks; make-up and hair not quite up to usual standards, but all with the buttons on their blouses done-up as high as they will go.

'My mother phoned,' Peggy hears one girl say to another, 'she didn't want me home on my own... My roommate's away... I told her she was being ridiculous... ' her voice trails off.

'I was here yesterday,' the other one says quietly, 'we were all just in shock.'

Peggy leaves them to continue unobserved and settles in her office. The space really is like a little refuge from everything else going on. For the first time, even the hum and whir of the computer is comforting in its familiarity.

She's just removed her light overcoat and thrown it over the back of her chair when Don's phone rings. She can tell from the volume that it's his. As she pours a drink to settle her nerves she waits for it to ring out— but after only two and a half rings it stops abruptly. Peggy can't curb her curiosity; leaning out of her office to see who had answered the phone.

The desk outside Don's office is unoccupied, though from the sunlight spilling out onto the floor, Peggy can tell the office door is open.

With her drink in-hand, Peggy takes hesitant steps towards the door.

After their kiss— and her apparent rejection... or at least, _hesitation_— Peggy had been strict on herself. She hadn't stayed back after-hours to complete extra work. The thought of another late-night encounter with Don kept running through her mind. Peggy realised too late that she had enjoyed it... his attention, his frustration, his affection. But that didn't forgive the _motivation_, and Peggy was still proud of her instinct. She'd told him to think— _really think_— all these things through. If he'd decided to stand by what he'd said and done on Wednesday night, it would be up to him to come and see her.

And yet here she was... allowing herself to be drawn back towards him.

A few feet away from the open door, Peggy hears him. Don's speaking softly at first, but there's a frustration creeping into his tone as he continues.

'— spoke with Marie. She didn't understand the fuss— Well that's what it looks like to them. They didn't know her, _neither did you_— That's not what I'm saying. Listen— I explained why you'd be anxious. Even Marie could see the similarities once — _Megan. Don't_— '

Megan. Of course. _Shit_. She must be terrified. Peggy's sure someone had said Megan was living in the Valley.

'They met you at the airport?' There's a brief pause. 'Good.'

So Megan had flown out of LA? It didn't sound like she'd come to New York though. Sure, they were separating, but Don would still have been there if she'd asked him.

There's a long silence. and Peggy moves closer to the doorway, taking a sip of her drink. For a moment she thinks perhaps they've finished their call, and then there's a heavy sigh—

'What would you do here? You're— ' He must get interrupted. 'You're far enough away from it there.' He goes quiet again. '_Sleep_, Megan... ' Don sounds like he could use some sleep too.

'Yes?' He says sharply. Peggy assumes he's still talking to Megan. '_Dawn?_'

Peggy stirs and considers simply backing away, but steps into Don's view, loitering in the doorway. Don's holding the receiver to his chest to muffle the sound. He frowns quizzically at her as he lifts the phone back to his ear.

'_Yes_, I can talk,' he glances back up at Peggy. 'No— a few of the secretaries. No one wants to be on their own here either.' Peggy invites herself into the office as he says that, self-consciously wiping at her eyes, hoping they aren't red or blotchy from her earlier episode.

'I don't know— _a few_.'

Peggy turns her back on him to close the door as quietly as possible.

'No one you'd know. Does it matter?'

Interesting. Peggy studies the old Mets flag attached to the back of the door, fastened just above her eye line. Turning around, she leans against the door, content to just look around the room.

Don's caught in a one-sided conversation. He's hunched over his desk; resting the weight of his head against one hand as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

Gazing around, Peggy notices the same paper she'd been reading earlier folded over and placed on Don's couch. Peggy feels drawn to it, even picking it up to read the horror story all over again as though this copy of the newspaper might hold different information to her own.

Her earlier unsteadiness returns suddenly; that tightness in her gut, the constriction on her throat, the curious sensation that her legs are feather-light and her head is heavy so that standing upright feels entirely unnatural. Peggy hesitates over where to put the paper— stepping one way, then another— something bitter and acidic rising in her throat. She ends up facing Don, who has been following her every uncertain move with intense concern. Megan's still talking in his ear.

Don holds out his hand to take the newspaper from her. Peggy makes to pass it to him, but can't let go straight away. He tries to gently tug it from her grip, and Peggy has to stumble a few steps towards him before she will let go. The paper is put away in a desk drawer; out of sight, but hardly out of mind.

That look of concern is still fixed on his face. All she can do is curtly nod at him. A silent answer to a silent question.

Peggy fixes him a fresh drink— and tops up her own— placing it squarely in front of him, their hands brushing briefly as he goes to drink it right away.

She takes the seat opposite him at his desk and abandons the illusion that she's not listening to Don's conversation.

Sitting down steadies her, but resting an elbow on the desk and her head in her hand steadies her further. With her free hand she plays with the glass, watching the amber liquid spinning and swirling. When the action begins to feel like a rhythm, she stops, feeling a headache coming on.

'It wasn't a good idea— ' says Don, cutting through the silence. 'You agreed.'

Peggy watches him with her head still resting in her hand.

'I can't help them.' Don sighs. 'They'll have gotten out of town— '

Peggy's mildly curious as to who "they" are.

'I— ' Again, he's cut off.

Peggy rises to reach across the desk for Don's Lucky Strike carton. Walking over to his framed awards, she lights a cigarette. At the first drag, she recoils. It's not her usual blend. There's a sharp knocking behind her. Peggy turns. Don's tapping on his desk to get her attention. He even looks amused.

'The door,' he answers into the receiver, at the same time motioning for Peggy to pass him the cigarette.

'_Dawn_,' he explains further. Don takes a slow drag of the Lucky, keeping his gaze fixed on Peggy.

Unaware exactly what it is that's causing it, Peggy feels the urge to cry again. Well, maybe not to cry, but her body wants to sink to the ground from frustration and exhaustion and all the things she keeps trying _not_ to feel.

Any hint of Don's amusement slides away, replaced again with concern. Even the receiver is brought away from his ear as he's distracted.

It's another silent question. A_re you all right?_

Her reply is to shake her head and retreat to the couch, laying down to stare at the ceiling. How can she explain what she's thinking... about Julio, about the baby, about night after night looking into station wagons and feeling hollow, about Stan's friendship and Ted's eagerness, about Don... about how much she wants it to be Wednesday night again, to be right here as they are now, alone but without this reality.

The couch shifts as an extra weight is added to it. Peggy stirs from her reverie, and sits up. He's carried the phone over with him, still listening to Megan talk.

She's not sure what to do now there's no desk between them.

'It will effect you. It will effect a lot of people. You have to feel it. You have to _allow_ it... ' Don's not meeting her eye as he speaks into the receiver.

'Otherwise it'll consume you. Slowly. Then one day it's familiar, and everything _else_ is clouded,' he says quietly. He meets Peggy's stare. Don looks as drawn as she feels.

Something on the other end of the line makes him give a short, tired laugh, 'I was just saying to get some sleep— I know I did, but I get the feeling you're not listening.' Peggy offers up a weak smile.

Don returns to his desk. 'No. Tomorrow. You can reach me here— I don't know where I'll be tonight.'

Those last few words make Peggy sit up straighter.

Without any good-byes, Don's hung the receiver back on its cradle. To Peggy it seems as though entire minutes pass before he turns back to her. He gives nothing away as he joins her on the couch again. They both remain facing forwards.

Don clears his throat, 'Did you want to talk abou— '

'No. No... '

'I did what you said.'

'And?'

'Nothing's changed.' Don doesn't miss a beat, but Peggy's quiet for a while.

'It's so quiet... ' she says, on a separate train of thought. 'Empty... ' All the apartments were full, but there were no children anymore. She looks at Don and wonders if he could understand. 'I need to talk to Ted.'

Don's shoulders drop slightly at her words.

Peggy focuses on her hands clasped in her lap.

She knows he's looking at her, that he's turned his whole body towards her. 'I don't want to go home,' she says eventually, very quietly.

'Don't,' he replies, lowering his voice so the word sounds hoarse and uncertain.

'Can I stay?'

Don clears his throat again. '_Yes_.' He's being short and dismissive; not used to being the unsure party in these situations.

Peggy smiles to herself; Don's misunderstood her intention in wanting to talk to Ted, but something holds her back from setting him straight right away.

* * *

**Preview of chapter 9: Clean breaks and new space. **


	9. Chapter 9 - August 26, 1969

Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter posted. Good news is, I've already started on the next chapter... which is also the last...

Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who's left comments/kudos so far! It's really lovely to hear that so many of you are enjoying this story, and that even some who were a bit wary of a Don/Peggy pairing have liked it!

As always, feel free to post your comments/reviews. I really like reading them :)

**Summary: Clean breaks and new space.**

* * *

**Tuesday, August 26, 1969**

Ted's only just thrown his case onto his desk and sat down when Peggy knocks at his door.

She's looking around for something. 'I heard a crash... Oh.'

Ted moves around to see what she's found. It's one of his planes, broken into pieces on the carpet. He must have pushed it off with his case. It had taken him a weekend to glue it back together the last time he'd broken it.

He gathers up all but one of the pieces. Peggy's picked up the last one, turning it over in her hand. She passes it back to him with great care, as though worried she'll damage the thing that's already broken.

He piles the debris onto his desk; something to deal with later. Maybe he'll take it home with him. It might keep him occupied in that time between eating, drinking, and sleeping.

'You've settled in then?' says Peggy.

He'd taken over the office two weeks ago, only once his plans for the Creative lounge had been approved.

'Yes!' he says, enthused. 'I see what you mean about the computer though. How do you manage to stay sane?' he means it in the lightest possible way, but something flashes across Peggy's face that says; _I don't_.

He hurries to move the conversation along. 'Have you seen the lounge yet? They moved the furnishings in last night.' He'd looked for her at the time. Usually she was one of the last to leave, but the lights in her office were switched off when he'd checked at nine. Don was working though; his couch and coffee table littered with a mess of papers. He'd tried to casually ask if he knew when everyone else had left.

'Peggy's gone?' Don had said.

'She didn't check-in with you?'

Don's brow had furrowed for a brief moment before he offered up a shrug_._

Peggy crosses her arms. 'I looked in when they put the other doorway in— '

'Come look at it now,'

She looks wary at his enthusiasm.

It had become his project— his chance to make amends for being absent these past six months or so. It had turned out just as he'd pitched it to Don. Even his request for a second doorway had been realised.

He makes to leave the office, but Peggy hesitates.

'Come on. _Humour me,_' he says dryly.

They pass Moira at her desk, looking thoroughly unimpressed at being moved right next to the loud computer.

Don, Stan, Harry and Ken are in the conference room, pitching a seasonal campaign to Chevalier Blanc cologne. He can't hear what's being said as they pass, but Stan's standing idly by his art boards, while Ken throws out his arms to get a point across to the clients. Whatever he's saying; they look intrigued. Ted nods to Don. The other man gives nothing away about the meeting as he briefly looks at Peggy before shifting forward in his seat to take over from Ken.

'It turned out well I think,' Ted says, standing aside to usher Peggy into the Creative lounge. 'Maybe not as good as the last one, but it's workable.'

Peggy steps in and places a hand on the new table, running it along the wood grain. She still seems unimpressed.

'The couch,' Ted continues, 'it's similar to what you had before, but if you wanted, we could probably get another one against that wall.' Ted spins around to face the window. He looks back over at Peggy. She's casting an eye over all the blank wall panels. It won't be long until they're covered in clippings and work again.

'I don't know what happened to that print— '

Peggy turns to meet his eye. Ted tries to explain better, 'Yellow and black with the peacocks.' He makes a vague fan shape in the air.

'Stan has it,' she says.

He nods. Peggy's _still _looking out of sorts. He wonders if maybe she's preoccupied.

'Peggy, if you don't like it, you can just say— '

'You need to talk to Nan,' Peggy's voice is quiet but assured. 'You need your boys with you. You need your wife, Ted. Tell them to come back.'

All he can do is stare at her; mouth agape. Of course the decision of what to do about his family situation had been weighing heavily on him, but he never thought _Peggy_ would be the one with the solution.

No, that wasn't entirely true. A part of him had still been hoping she'd tell him to start afresh with her. But that would go against everything they'd been through since last November.

'I don't like to think of you going home and nobody being there,' she says.

'You could— ' he says, just as quietly, aware that it is the middle of a working day, and they're surrounded by colleagues.

'I can't.'

Peggy sits at the new table. She looks disconcertingly calm and composed. Ted can't say he's feeling the same way.

'I'm selling my building,' Peggy announces out of the blue, breaking their awkward silence. 'I want to be closer to the office.'

Ted allows himself to be distracted, 'Peggy... take it from me, you _can't_ let work be everything— '

'It's not like that,' she looks him straight in the eye, 'Abe was right, the value just... ' Peggy smiles, her head shaking with that tick she gets when she can't quite contain her emotions. 'And I'd like to live without the rats.'

'Are you sure?'

She laughs lightly. The sound is unsettling. 'About the rats? I'm sure.' Peggy breaks their eye contact and looks at her hands in her lap. He takes the chance to sit down across from her.

When she speaks next, she's still looking away from him; 'You got to do this last time. So I'm making the decision. I love you enough that I _can't_ see you fall apart again. I can't carry the weight of that— Or let you think that it might change.' She takes a deep breath, appearing to compose her thoughts. 'Talk to Nan.'

Peggy looks back at him. Her eyes are open wide and blazing blue. 'You need your family, Ted,' she says sympathetically, as though it's something to pity.

'You _just_ said you still love me.'

All he gets in response is a tilt of the head. Then, 'In a very different way.'

Ted stands, fixing up the button on his jacket. 'Is there someone— No, I shouldn't ask you that... ' He still wants her to say no, even though he knows he will be calling Nan as soon as he returns to his office. Actually, he may have a drink or two first.

'Should it matter?'

That's not an answer or a question he'd considered.

He hesitates. 'No.'

'You're a good man, Ted. You were always going to be.'

They just look at one another for a moment.

'Will you be ready for the five o'clock?' he asks. It would be their first Creative meeting in the new space.

Peggy nods. 'It looks good, Ted.'

'Thank you,' he says simply. She'll know exactly what he means.

It's his turn to nod as he leaves her sitting at the desk. As he passes the meeting room, the pitch is wrapping up, and he takes the weight of the door from Ken, holding it open for the clients, slipping back into business mode much more easily than he'd thought. Stan and Don leave last.

'I want that print back, Stan,' he says, indicating towards the Creative lounge.

Stan rolls his eyes but gives a sarcastic salute. Don looks on, bemused.

'Everything went well?' he asks, without much interest.

Don eyes him for a second, 'It did.'

Ted allows the door to slam shut.

* * *

Peggy startles when Stan lands the framed print on the table.

She'd been looking absently out of the window, still sitting where she'd been when Ted had left. She planned on giving herself a minute or two to just... let it all sink in; that she'd just shut that door for good. Somehow that two minutes had turned into ten.

'Should have taken this home weeks ago,' Stan grumbles.

'Why'd you even take it?' she says.

Stan narrows his eyes, '_I don't know,_' he says slowly, 'Nostalgia or kleptomania. One of the two.'

Peggy smirks and takes a cigarette from the carton Stan offers, taking the lighter from him to ignite it herself.

Even though the bustle of people moving up and down the staircase should be a reminder to get on with their work, they simply lean on the edge of the table and face the blank wall; where a picture hook is ready and waiting.

'I just did a _very _good thing...' says Peggy, 'a very good thing... '

Stan raises an eyebrow. She can tell he's not at all interested; he probably assumes she's referring to work. She takes a long drag on the cigarette, blowing out the smoke unevenly. She can see Stan's mild surprise when he eventually glances at her.

'Jesus, what'd you do?'

She shakes her head, feeling that nervous twitch starting up again.

'You're shaking,' Stan says, laughing.

Peggy attempts to look stern. She's feeling the temptation to smile, laugh, sigh and break down all at once.

Perhaps it's this silence that concerns Stan. He pushes off of the table and moves to stand in front of her.

'This got anything to do with Don?' he asks quietly, almost conspiratorially.

She grimaces and tilts her head.

'_Come on_, what'd you do?' he says.

Peggy just coyly shakes her head. 'You going to put this up?' she says, nodding at the framed artwork.

Stan frowns, but reaches for the frame; his cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Peggy shuffles to sit on the table with her shoes resting on one of the chairs; content to just watch Stan fiddle with the hanging wire and hook.

'You know... ' he mutters, 'You're gunna have to tell me eventually... ' Stan glances sideways at her, 'You're _the worst_ at keeping secrets.' He's leaning into the wall, trying to get the damn thing on the hook.

'I don't agree.'

'Oh I'm sorry, I forgot; Peggy Olson, "_master of mystery"_' With a short laugh, Stan stands back to inspect his work.

Peggy's just about to tell him that it's not sitting straight, when Don's voice cuts it.

'It's crooked.'

Stan adjusts the frame as Don steps into the Creative lounge. Peggy notices that he's carrying his coat and hat.

'Set for the five o'clock?' he says dryly.

'_I am_. Where are _you_ going?'

'Lunch,' he frowns at her for a second. 'Roger set it up.'

She considers him. It hasn't escaped her notice that Don's acting differently since the day she'd sought refuge in his office. There's a wariness, an uneasy anticipation.

Stan's moved back from the wall again.

'It's still crooked,' Peggy snaps.

'_You're crooked_,' Stan mutters, dropping his tone. Peggy kicks out at him, but he backs out of reach, laughing.

Don shifts on the spot. Peggy's still smiling when she realises— he's uncomfortable. Maybe even more than that. Maybe a little jealous. He waves his hat vaguely as a goodbye. She's _still_ smiling as she watches him go.

If Don Draper's waiting for her to make their "situation" clearer, then she can't wait to find out his reaction when he hears about Ted.

'I was right then,' drawls Stan, smirking.

She ignores him. 'It's _still_ crooked.'

Maybe they'd all just have to live with that.

* * *

He'd watched them go into the Creative lounge. He couldn't see into the room from his position at the table in the meeting room. It shouldn't concern him. It _really_ shouldn't concern him... However, throughout his pitch to Chevalier Blanc, he can't shake the irritation.

'This will definitely set you up for Christmas,' says Ken, throwing open his arms, trying to get across the scale of the idea.

'It's a variation of the theme,' says Don. 'It's the holidays, it's cold and it's dark and it's bleak. Only streetlights illuminate the sidewalk. Your handsome hero is walking down the street, his hands thrust into his pockets, the collar of his coat turned up to the chill. He passes woman after woman, laden with Christmas shopping for their husbands, for their boyfriends. They watch this man... envious of whoever it is he's going home to.'

He turns to Stan; who reveals the final art board. 'Only he's not going home. She's right there on the sidewalk, _waiting_ for him, holding the largest bottle of Chevalier Blanc you make behind her back. He stops, entranced. A close-up of the woman, a wicked smile playing on her lips. Then the tag, V/O— ' Don lowers his voice, hitting that gravelled tone he knows will win them over, '_There's only one thing he wants. And you know what it is._'

There's a short silence after he concludes. The main man from Chevalier frowns, but he's smiling. 'So you're selling this to women?'

'To the woman who wants the edge over all the others. She might not even be married, she might even be alone, but she'll know that Chevalier Blanc _is_ that edge,' says Don.

The client smirks. 'I like that. They don't even need it, but they'll be lining up for it. Find the right location, and I'll sign off on it.'

'Great, well, we'll get back to you on that and a schedule written up,' says Ken, standing up.

He tries to focus on what the Chevalier Blanc man's saying, but his attention's divided when Ted steps out from the Creative lounge. The Chevalier people move on to Ken and Harry, leaving Don to study Ted. Peggy hasn't followed him out. He waits, but it's just Ted.

Ted takes the weight of the door to the meeting room from Ken, who's started to open it, and greets the clients enthusiastically.

'I want that print back, Stan.'

Don catches Stan's sarcastic salute.

'Everything went well?' asks Ted. It's only when he's this close that he sees the enthusiasm hasn't reached Ted's eyes. Up close he looks drawn-out and distracted.

'It did,' he says coolly. He moves out of the way as Ted lets go of the door handle. It closes with a loud slam.

Don doubles back to the Creative lounge, looking in from the doorway; reasons and excuses to check-in with Peggy failing to formulate quickly.

Only Peggy doesn't look up. She's sitting still and stern at the table, utterly lost in her thoughts.

He steps away, making for his office. _Something_ must have happened with Ted.

Stan strolls past carrying a large frame under his arm.

The moment he's inside his office, he's reaching for his coat and hat. It's a spur of the moment decision to ask her to join him for lunch. He wants the chance to reverse whatever's just happened between her and Ted.

He hears Stan as he's approaching the doorway to the Creative lounge, '... I forgot. Peggy Olson, _master of mystery_.'

They're both facing away from him; Peggy's sitting on the table.

'It's crooked,' he says. It's something to say to get him into the room and into the conversation.

Peggy notices the coat and hat, and raises an eyebrow.

'Set for the five o'clock?' he says, failing to think of anything better to say.

'_I am_. Where are _you_ going?'

'Lunch...' he frowns at her for a second. He can't get the words out to ask her to join him. That was the plan. He could say it's with clients... he could say it's with a woman... or— 'Roger set it up.'

Peggy breaks the eye contact first to look over at Stan.

'It's still crooked,' she snaps.

'_You're crooked_,' Stan mutters. Peggy tries to kick him, but he gets out of the way; laughing.

Don shifts on the spot, adjusting his coat over his arm. Peggy's smiling when she meets his eye again. He's struck by how happy— how light— she looks. So he'd been right; something _had _happened with Ted while he'd been in that meeting.

He waves his hat vaguely to excuse himself.

Peggy was happy and he'd had nothing to do with it.

'Don!' Ted calls out from his desk as Don passes his office on the way to his fictional lunch date.

He steps into the office.

Ted's got a hand on the receiver of his phone. 'The five o'clock. Can we move it to tomorrow?'

'If you're behind, Ted, say so— ' Don says dryly. In truth he'd love to cancel the meeting. He'd like to just go home. But he'll take any chance that's offered to cut the other man down right now.

'No... ' says Ted, 'I've just spoken with Nan.' He looks surprised by the words coming out of his own mouth. With a deep sigh, he continues, 'And now I've got to speak with the boys' schools, sort out realtors, removals, flights— '

'Flights?'

Ted clears his throat, 'They're coming back to New York... I mean, they always were... ' he trails off. 'Can we reschedule?'

'That's... good to hear_,_' he's still processing Ted's news. 'It is _good_ news, isn't it?'

Ted picks up the receiver, holding it against his chest. 'I doubt it's surprising news. It was always going to go this way apparently.' He brings the phone to his ear; it's the signal for Don to leave.

He closes the door to Ted's office slowly, cautious to process everything carefully.

Stan's booming laugh precedes him as Peggy leads him to her office. Don picks up on her slight hesitation mid-step when she sees him.

'Meeting's cancelled,' he says quickly. She doesn't look surprised; passing him to open her door. Stan walks between them to get into her office.

Peggy puts her hands on her hips, obviously waiting for him to speak first. There's something very direct and brazen in the way she considers him.

'I... just heard,' he says slowly, 'Ted's family's moving back.'

'Good,' she says with an eyebrow raised and a barely suppressed smile.

'_Good?_' he asks, still cautious... 'Why's that?'

Peggy shifts on the spot, her hands moving to smooth her blue dress idly. She's practically grinning now.

'I thought that would be obvious,' she says quietly.

There's a loud groan from inside her office. '_Come on_,' cries Stan.

Peggy appears flustered and takes a step backwards into her office. He reaches for her, hoping to get a hand or her waist, but she shakes her head slowly— still smiling. At least one of them is still aware that Ted's only in the next room.

With one last wicked look, she disappears into her office.

Something might just be _finally_ going right.

* * *

**Preview of chapter 10: They're on the threshold...**


	10. Chapter 10 - August 28, 1969

Here we are... the final chapter! I hope you like it!

Thank you for reading! I really do hope you've liked and enjoyed what I've written! Reading all of your lovely comments has been brilliant! And as always, don't hesitate to comment or message me - I'd love to know if you'd like to see me write some more Mad Men or if you have any prompts or ideas :)

Thanks again :)

**Summary: They're on the ****threshold...**

* * *

**Thursday, August 28 , 1969**

It had been impossible to get Peggy on her own all morning. If it wasn't Stan working right by her side, it was Mathis running copy past her, or Ted attempting to tell her about his plans to spend time with his sons as though the last nine months or so had happened to someone else. Maybe they had.

He'd been distracted all day. It wasn't something he could stand to leave unresolved over the weekend. Friday, he tells himself; he'll find the time to talk to her tomorrow.

That was the problem; he'd been telling himself he'd speak to her "tomorrow" since Tuesday.

Ted looks happy. The only time he stops smiling is when he thinks no one is looking. Don's seen him falter once. It's enough to sober him up. He'd been feeling faintly delirious since Peggy had given him that wicked look.

It was a possibility now.

It was a possibility now, and what is he doing? Sitting safely behind his desk watching his cigarette burn out and reading the same line of Chevalier Blanc paperwork over and over?

Today couldn't be another missed opportunity.

* * *

'Plans for lunch?' he says, stepping into the Creative lounge.

'Champagne, lobster... ' Stan drawls, leaning over his drawing pad, erasing a line away thoroughly. 'But if you can top that,' he pauses to quickly blow the eraser dust away, 'I'm all yours.'

Next to him, reading through research, Peggy snorts a laugh.

'I'll keep that in mind.' Don looks at her.

Peggy narrows her eyes, and fights back what Don's pretty sure would be a smirk.

'Nope,' she says.

'You do now.'

She raises an eyebrow. _Do I_, it seems to say.

'Will you need me?' This is directed at Stan.

'Nothing here that can't wait till tomorrow,' he says smoothly, not once looking up from his work.

'This won't take long,' she replies, standing and gathering her papers.

Stan only hums in vague acknowledgement.

Don shifts on the spot as he tries to catch what Peggy then says very quietly to Stan. Whatever it is, it gets his attention. He says something back, Don makes out the word "sure". He watches intently for any clue of her answer. Was that a nod?

When Peggy passes him to make for her office, she looks conflicted. Don follows a few steps behind, meeting her outside her office, finding her turning up the cuffs of her coat.

In the lift down to the ground floor, they're silent. They stand a decent, professional distance apart, and both look ahead at the elevator doors.

Peggy's the first to exit, swiftly heading towards the buildings doors, hesitating only a moment — just long enough for Don to catch up to her — before making the decision to turn right.

They walk a couple of blocks, falling into step eventually, once Peggy slows down.

He glances across at her occasionally. He's happy to just follow; trusting her plan.

She stops abruptly outside a rather low-key diner. It reminds him of their last meal together, nine months ago. He's curious as to whether this is deliberate.

'Peggy — '

She looks at him over her shoulder as she leads him to a table.

He tries to think of something clever to say, or failing that, something useful. All he can manage as they sit across from each other in the deep-green upholstered booth is a perplexed expression. It seems to amuse her anyway.

Peggy shrugs out of her coat, and pulls it out from under her to fold it up haphazardly and place it next to her on the seat.

The place is pretty quiet, they've missed the lunch crowd by an hour. Peggy orders for herself without looking at the menu, then raises an eyebrow, indicating for Don to jump in. Caught a little off guard, he simply copies her order, which gets him a deep frown from Peggy.

Nothing is getting the right reaction today it seems.

'Ted's... ' _Jesus_, why did he think to bring this up first, 'asked for a few days — '

'When his family arrives. I know.'

Their coffees are poured out, and two danishes brought over. Neither touches their food. Peggy toys with her cup, tapping at the handle.

'I'm sorry, but you're taking this... Well, a bit too easily,' he says, turning his own cup handle to face the right way.

'Really? It hasn't been easy... Until it was,' there's a quick smile to herself at her own words. 'We both knew.'

He liked to push that point. When did they know? How?

'And do you feel... _lighter_?'

Peggy takes a sip of coffee. She places it back into its cheap ceramic saucer with great care.

'I do.' She's silent for a minute or two, alternating between sipping her coffee and folding her hands in her lap.

'I don't know who I am anymore,' she says quietly.

The words hit him with force. Don straightens in his chair, goes to speak — but the waitress returns to fill Peggy's cup.

'I like it,' she continues, 'I'm not dependant on anyone. No one's dependent on me — ' Peggy falters briefly. 'I got a buyer for the building.'

Don's not sure what the connection between the two statements is, but he latches onto the later; 'Where are you moving to?'

'I... _don't know,_' she says slowly, drawing out each word.

'When do you need to be out of there?'

'Soon,' she looks at him brightly, 'Got a spare room going?' she says quickly, laughing off the question before she's even finished asking it.

Don studies her. He can see the wave of unease go through her.

'Ignore that... Don — ' She relaxes back into her side of the booth, but immediately brings herself forward again, crossing her arms on the table and leaning in. 'Do you remember my first day?'

He shakes his head.

'I guess I have more reason to remember it than you do... I put my hand on yours — '

He frowns, picturing it either through memory or imagination.

' — that's what I was told to do. _I was willing to offer myself up to you_... Because that's what was expected.'

Don fights the urge to shift in his seat; uncomfortable and unsure where this is heading.

'I might be the only one you turned down. Except Blankenship. Isn't that a curious thought?' Peggy brings the coffee cup to her lips, studying him over the rim of the cup. Her eyes are bright and the way the fine lines gather around them suggest she's smiling.

'I had no interest in you then,' she says smoothly.

Don takes his chance, lowering his voice and leaning imperceptibly closer. 'And now?'

Her head shakes a little with that nervous tick of hers.

'Are we going to talk this through?' he asks quietly.

'I'm not going to marry you,' she says quickly.

He can't stop himself from laughing, leaning back quickly against the backrest of the booth; utterly surprised, 'I... never asked.'

'Well... Good. As long as that's clear.'

Peggy sinks back into her own seat, biting at her bottom lip.

He picks up on her hesitation. 'What?'

'I don't cook. I mean, I _can_... cook, but... I don't.'

'Where is this coming from?'

'I can't be someone's _wife_. I can't sit around all day and — and plan dinner parties. I won't look after your children, Don. Don't ask me to do that. If that's what this is... I'd rather you told me now.'

How can he explain that while he doesn't want to own her, he can't stand the thought of sharing her. He doesn't want a wife. That's the last thing he needs. He doesn't want a mother for his children. He doesn't want dinner waiting on the table. He wants to stumble through the door with her, heavy with exhaustion after another day at the office, and fall laughing to the floor with her.

'I thought I was missing out on that. That all those mothers had... I don't know... Had done something right.' She smiles at him, 'And I thought about it. I ran the scene through my head... Taking my husband and my children to Burger Chef, driving in our Chevy... Coming home to waxed floors and quick-fix dessert... Lying in bed thinking, _where does he go before he comes home?_ and it just...' She shakes her head, incredulous, 'I don't want that. I don't need it like they do, you know? I need to be here,' she knocks at the table top, but he knows what she means, 'not playing house.'

The thought of her playing house makes him laugh.

'And I'm not moving to another agency. I'm not going to make this easy or convenient... for either of us.'

'What if _I_ left.'

'You couldn't. _You_ have a contract.'

'After that. what if I started something of my own.'

'_Again_?'

'Would you come with me?'

He watches her as she leans back into the booth. Peggy crosses her arms and considers him. 'Only if it was where I needed to be.'

And that there was why he had started seeing her in a different light. She was acting in her own interests. No one else's.

'I'd spend the rest of my life trying to hire you,' he says, remembering clearly the last time he'd said that to her.

'I know,' she says softly.

Peggy slides the plate with her pastry towards her. She seems much more comfortable after getting that out.

'What _do_ you want?' He means it. Really. He still can't pinpoint exactly where Peggy wants to take this... this whatever it it they've found themselves in — This _thing_ they've somehow agreed to finally address.

Jesus, even now, sitting across from her, he was still cynical.

'This isn't where I want to be.'

So he'd been right to hold back.

'What do you mean?' he says coolly.

'At lunch. At a table. Just _sitting_ here.'

It's only after Peggy says those last few words that Don realises he's been looking away from her. He'd almost allowed that door to begin to close — but then he catches that wicked smile. That glint in her eyes. It's a keenness and an anticipation, but better than that it — it's clear. There's no subtext or layers or professionalism. It's just want and curiosity.

'_Really?_' he croons, leaning forward to cross his arms on the table top.

'Really.'

'And if — '

'And if it isn't right? We're both adults. We move past it.'

'You_ really_ think you're capable of that?' Don's not sure if she could move on as easily as she would like to think. Peggy's tough, but he's felt the weight of her emotion before; with Ted, with office politics, with their own history.

'I don't know. I don't know what I'm capable of — But...' she laughs and bites at her bottom lip; a sudden thought seeming to leap into her head. 'Aren't you _burning_ to know?' She can't keep a straight face as she speaks.

Don gives a short laugh at hearing his own words being turned on him.

He's still smiling when he leads the way back onto the sidewalk.

A cab's hailed and waiting before Peggy's reaches his side.

He hasn't asked if this would be the next step she'd like... But when he opens the cab door she slides in without a word.

'73rd and Park' he says, taking his place beside her.

They're silent the whole journey. Don catches the driver attempting to read the dynamic between them in his rear-view mirror.

The silence continues as he leads the way into the foyer, and then when they enter the lift.

Peggy's the first to exit, continuing on to round the first corner. He's forgotten that she's been here before.

When he catches up to her, he sees that she hasn't made it to his door yet. She's shuffling idly on the spot, looking down at the carpet. He'd quite like to kiss her, but instead he rakes his hand across the small of her back to snap her out of her reverie and gently guide her in the right direction.

Peggy startles somewhat — well, it's more of a shiver.

It's enough to say that maybe they won't have to worry about "forgetting" it and trying to move on.

Peggy leans against one of the double doors as he takes out the key. Her calmness is contagious.

With the door swung open, he thinks he should say something — something clever or deep or even clichéd — but Peggy's pushing off from the other door and moves to pass him across the threshold to his apartment. Without a word, she steps in, turns and stands right in front of him.

It's another one of their standoffs, except this time it's all on him to decide what to do next.

He pushes the door behind him without looking away from her. It closes decisively.

* * *

At a 4:45, the office is as busy as when she'd left it to go to lunch.

Peggy shrugs out of her coat and hangs it over the arm of her couch.

For a short while she's unsure of what to do next. Everything's gone a little... unsteady... all of a sudden.

She settles on pouring a generous measure of something brown into a glass and taking it back to her desk.

There's been an urge to laugh aloud that hasn't left her all afternoon. Fighting it with alcohol doesn't seem to be working though.

'I did _not_ think we'd be seeing you again today,' calls Stan from the doorway.

Peggy frowns at him. He accepts this as an invitation to come in and take a seat.

'_What did you do?_' What he means to say is: "What did you do to ruin it?"

'It was lunch. Lunch ends.'

'After two and a half hours? I'd say it stopped being lunch after the first thirty minutes.'

Peggy is careful not to give anything away, simply eyeing him reproachfully.

'_Come on, Chief. _You gotta give me something_..._'

'There's nothing to tell, Stan. We talked. That's all. No... anything. I had things to do on the way back. That's — that's what took so long, alright. _Alright_?'

Stan stares at her, but when he gets no more he sinks back into the couch with a groan. 'You're so uninspiring, you know that, right?'

She's about to tell him to go back to his office when her secretary appears in the doorway.

'Miss Olson, There's a call... '

'Who?'

'Ah... ' she looks unsure, but Peggy suspects she can guess and waves her away before Stan notices anything's amiss.

Peggy takes the receiver, angling herself away from Stan. 'Yes?'

'Dinner,' says the deep voice at the other end of the line, 'Where?'

'There.'

'We can go out of the city if that's what you're worried about.'

'It's not,' she says, chancing a look over at Stan, who's amusing himself by staring at the ceiling. Peggy gives a small laugh.

'What?' says Don.

She's got Stan's attention too.

'Nothing,' she says into the receiver.

There's a pause and the line crackles. 'You're not alone?'

'Nope.'

'_Ted?_'

'No... '

'Stan.'

'Yep.' It's then that she realises her conversation is sounding too informal to Stan's ears. 'Yes. That's correct.' She even flips though a few pages on her desk.

'Still think it was worth going back in today?' he sounds smug.

'I do. I recall you agreed with the decision.' She catches Stan's confused look. 'If that's something you'd want us to change we can have that discussion.'

'Here? You're _sure_ you'd rather just come straight back— '

'_Yes,_' she puts a little too much feeling into the word. Peggy can practically hear his grin over the phone.

'_Peggy_. Just make an excuse and get out of there,' he says, his voice gravelly.

She nods to herself and cuts the call on the switch-hook; still holding the receiver to her chest.

'You're _terrible... _' drawls Stan. He's leaning back on the couch, hands behind his head, and smirking at her; the corners of his eyes crinkling. 'I knew it!'

Peggy offers only a knowing smile before landing the receiver back on its cradle with a crash.

Not too far away, Don Draper is doing the exact same thing.


End file.
